The Mercenary

by Dan Hampton

  Momentarily disoriented by the bright moon glow against the clouds, he blinked rapidly behind the goggles. Bunting the nose over slightly, he glanced at the radar to get a bearing, then stared outside. Unlike a western fighter, the FLANKER had no visual pointing cues in the HUD to help a pilot see the target. But that was what the goggles were for.

  And there it was.

  A blind man couldn’t miss it . . . especially with NVGs. About three miles away and maybe 2,000 feet above him. He was slightly behind and below the wingline of the big airliner. Almost a perfect intercept position. He wasn’t visible from the cockpit and the chances of a passenger happening to see and understand the flash from the afterburners was very small.

  But he was much, much too fast. Overshooting the airliner vertically, he rolled upside down to keep it in sight and stabilized about 1,000 feet above the commercial jet. Pulling back hard on the stick, he used gravity to slow down. With his left thumb he slid the switch forward that opened the big speed brake and the FLANKER shuddered as it lost speed. Inverted, the mercenary snap-rolled the jet and pulled back down behind the other aircraft.

  It was a Boeing 777 and he could see the Delta markings on the tail. Jockeying the throttles, he carefully closed to a mile and exactly matched the airliner’s airspeed. Quickly cross-checking his own engine gauges and fuel, he then switched the ZHUK radar back to standby. Bumping up slightly, he maintained a high position directly behind the airliner’s tail and toggled on the autopilot. This position would keep him out of the jet wash and completely invisible to those on board.

  Relaxing then, he shifted in the seat, dropped his mask and ran a gloved finger around the inside of his helmet. Eyeing the Time over Target Display, the pilot saw they were right on schedule. Seventy-five miles to the BULAN intersection and the next reporting point. After that to PABSCO. Then straight into Taipei. He allowed himself another smile. No need to worry about Taiwan’s air defenses now.

  The airliner had just opened the door.

  “Sir.” The Taiwanese sergeant put his headset down and swiveled his chair around. “That Delta flight is over BULAN”—he stifled a yawn—“and a Lufthansa jet is reporting APITO.”

  Captain Wang waved nonchalantly. He got off in less than an hour and was thinking about his current girlfriend. She was an Air Singapore flight attendant, almost twenty-three years old, and in a hurry to experience life. That made him grin. Her more exotic requests often left him exhausted. Not to mention bent. The thought of her young, naked body lying in his bed was far more pleasant than the position of commercial airliners.

  The buzzing of the phone interrupted his thoughts of nipples and tight skin. The sergeant turned again. “Sir . . . the ICC is reporting something odd.”

  “So . . . ?”

  The sergeant swallowed hard. He was clearly not happy to irritate his officer. “The ICC reports that the Early Warning site at Sungsan reported a possible midair collision incident with the Delta airliner.”

  Wang frowned. “With whom?”

  “The supervisor didn’t know. It was a spurious contact . . . only visible long enough to trip their threshold.”

  “And then?”

  The sergeant shrugged. “It disappeared.”

  Wang suppressed a sigh. “And yet the Delta jet is alive and well over BULAN.”

  Just then the other hotline buzzed and Wang picked it up himself. It was the direct link to the Engagement Control Station. Located in its own five-ton tactical truck, the ECS physically controlled the firing of each Patriot battery.

  “Wang.”

  “Sir, this is Lieutenant Chia. The Weapons Control computer just went into automatic mode. It’s tracking a contact bearing 020 degrees for 185 miles.”

  The captain swung around and tapped his monitor to bring it out of standby. It was a 30-inch-square flat-glass display centered on Taiwan. A big blue rectangle depicted the Air Defense Identification Zone that theoretically protected Taiwan’s airspace. Fifty-mile rings emanated outward, and by touching various function buttons, he could call up a myriad of display options. He called up geographic references and all the various ATC routes and navigation points in the area appeared on the display.

  Running the mouse northeast out from Taipei, he put the cursor at about 180 miles. It was directly over a faint blue triangle.

  BULAN.

  “Sir?” The lieutenant’s voice was a bit strained. “Sir . . . what should we do?”

  Spurious contacts. Wang inhaled sharply. He had been trained in the United States and was well aware of the Patriot’s aggressive record. Its accuracy claims had been somewhat overstated in both Gulf wars. More damning, it had been directly responsible for shooting down several Allied aircraft. The AUTO mode was notorious for identification problems and in the absence of valid solutions, the system erred to the aggressive side. Meaning it shot first and asked questions later.

  “Do, Lieutenant?” Captain Dei Wang wanted to become Major Wang. He was definitely not going to be responsible for shooting down a commercial airliner with Taiwan’s first operational PAC-3 system. “I’ll tell you exactly what to do. Exactly. Are you listening?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re going to override the AUTO mode and go to MANUAL control. I repeat, MANUAL control. You will continue to monitor all inbound air traffic but will not, under any circumstances, initiate an engagement without the duty officer’s direct order. There will also be no practice locks in the MANUAL mode. Do you understand?”

  “Yessir.” The man sounded relieved. “I understand. I will note your instructions in the log for my replacement.”

  “And Lieutenant . . .” Wang turned the volume up on the digital recorder that recorded all the BeeTock’s voice communications. “You will instruct your relief to run a full diagnostic scan when we bring the system down in the morning.”

  “Yessir. An excellent idea, sir.”

  Wang smiled and hung up the phone. Now he was covered. Just to be on the safe side.

  Stately and slowly, the airliner began its gentle descent. On board, the flight attendants passed through the cabins and collected trash, raised seat backs, and answered silly questions about the weather in Taiwan. The 306 passengers stretched, wobbled to the toilet, and struggled back into their shoes.

  In the cockpit the pilots reviewed their instrument approach plates, checked the landing conditions, and thought about getting some feeling back in their butts. All in all, Delta Flight 275 was a peaceful, satisfied collection of humans floating softly back to earth.

  But they didn’t know about the FLANKER.

  The big fighter was hanging silently and invisibly in the darkness just beyond the tail. Waiting. Waiting for this very moment. The mercenary was flying silky smooth, barely touching the controls. Matching the Triple Seven in airspeed and heading and staying just above the level of its horizontal tails to avoid the jet wash. Commercial airliners also all had traffic collision avoidance systems (TCAS) to help them avoid hitting each other. However, they only functioned when both aircraft were using the proper transponders, and although the fighter had such equipment, it was off. In any event, he was flying in the blind zone off the airliner’s tail to prevent inadvertent activation. He was also close enough to blend in with the bigger jet’s radar return. Not difficult flying—not for him—but tedious.

  Walking the throttles back an inch, the mercenary let the fighter’s nose drop and slipped a bit to the right to avoid the
uncomfortable position directly above the airliner. Now he could fly formation using the corners of his eyes and devote his attention to the next phase of his flight. And the reason for being here.

  He turned up the rheostat lighting on the consoles and focused on the ordnance selection panel. Unlike a western fighter with glass displays, most of the FLANKER’s weapons had to be manually configured. But that was all right. Though more cumbersome, it was simpler and there were fewer chances for a mistake.

  He carefully rechecked the sequence of signals, called release pulses, which would free the cluster bombs from their racks under his wings. This was vital because it dictated the pattern in which they would impact the target, and this, in turn, determined how destructive they were. Since there would be only one chance at this, it had to be right.

  The Triple Seven’s big right wing suddenly dropped as the airliner turned toward Taiwan. Pulling the throttles back to idle, he fanned open the speed brake. The fighter slowed and he dropped back still farther and more aft of the airliner. No sense being seen by some curious passenger.

  Ignoring the growing weight of the goggles and the burning in his eyes, the mercenary concentrated again on the weapons. Each cluster-bomb canister weighed 1,000 pounds and contained 350 softball-sized bomblets that exploded on impact. This created a shotgun-blast effect on the target. The density, or bomblets per thousand square feet, was determined by how far above the earth the canister opened. His were all set to open at 1,500 feet above the ground level. This would put about eight exploding bomblets in each thousand square feet. Enough to kill armored targets like tanks.

  Certainly enough to kill his target.

  The lieutenant in the ECS watched the green-coded square drift slowly down the display.

  DL 275.

  Delta Flight 275. If it had been identified as HOSTILE it would have been red. UNKNOWNs were yellow. The green square was just below the reporting fix of PABSCO, about seventy miles northeast of Taipei. He moved the mouse-controlled cursor over the airliner’s square and a block of English information popped up.

  Delta Flight 275/ Boeing 777-ER/EL 103

  PW4098

  ALT-19000/350 KIAS

  FRIEND

  The lieutenant was fluent in English but he pulled out his laminated quick-reference checklist to be certain. So it was at 19,000 feet and descending. Its airspeed was 350 knots and it was identified as a positive friendly. It had also been loaded in the electronic global database as Number 103. This would also assign all known electronic characteristics of this particular Triple Seven into the common database so it could be recalled in situations such as this.

  But . . .

  He frowned. Something wasn’t quite right. There was a slight shadow of another square behind the DL 275 mnemonic.

  Another square, and this one was yellow. That meant something was unresolved electronically. An ambiguity. The lieutenant right-clicked the mouse to expand the display.

  AI

  PWXXXX

  APG 68/AR600/ZHUK

  UNKNOWN

  He frowned and rummaged through the top desk drawer of his console for the ambiguity tables. Many radars operated in the same frequency range and were ambiguous, or overlapping, with the same basic characteristics. This made identification based on electronic means somewhat perilous. Still, if you knew what each similar signal could be electronically and then discounted what it could not be, based on geography or the situation, you could arrive at a reasonable solution.

  He flipped open the plastic-coated checklist and ran down the signals that were ambiguous in the AI, or airborne intercept, radar frequency range.

  APG-68.

  Fire control radar for an F-16 fighter. Not likely. The closest F-16s were in Korea. They were never this far south.

  AR600. This was the weather radar on a KC-135 Tanker. He shook his head. Used for aerial refueling, this jet would really only be near fighters or U.S. military bases. Certainly not on final approach for Chiang Kai-shek International Airport in Taiwan.

  That left the ZHUK. He frowned again at the entry. Airborne intercept (AI) radar for the SU-27 FLANKER.

  He knew very well what that was. A Russian-made fighter sold to and manufactured by the People’s Republic of China.

  China.

  Like most Taiwanese, he manifested an inherent fear of China.

  They’d vowed that Taiwan was an inseparable part of their country. That no amount of international pressure, no amount of global economic or social sanction would change Beijing’s stance on the status of the island. A FLANKER. Here.

  But it was clearly impossible.

  The lieutenant yawned and scratched himself. It had to be some unresolved ambiguity with the airliner’s electronics. Had to be. Maybe the triple seven’s weather radar was emitting strangely and it tripped up the Patriot. Those things had happened before. Stretching slowly, he thought about calling the BTOK then shook his head. He wasn’t about to risk another ass chewing by Captain Wang.

  Maybe he would just brew another cup of tea.

  Besides, how could a FLANKER have gotten within seventy miles of Taiwan under the nose of this new PAC– 3 system?

  He shook his head again and smiled. That was the whole reason behind the much-publicized purchase of the Patriot.

  It just couldn’t happen.

  Taiwan was lit up like Las Vegas.

  The pilot smiled a little as he thought of that. Vegas, with all those exercises and war games he’d been part of over the years. Red Flags and Green Flags and Purple flags.

  It was ironic that he, who had led so many of those silly missions, should be here to attack one of America’s staunchest allies. But he’d led many missions that hadn’t been silly at all. Baghdad, Sarajevo. Others.

  The mercenary’s eyes narrowed. The triple seven was slowing down considerably and he was back in idle power, fanning the speed brake to stay in formation. Taiwan lay directly in front of him and Taipei lit up the entire northern end of the island.

  Chiang Kai-shek International’s three parallel runways were clearly visible, even from thirty miles out, along the northwest shoreline. The Delta jet had dropped to 10,000 feet and was slowing to less than 300 knots.

  Through the HUD the pilot saw the small green rectangle superimposed over his target on the extreme northern end of the island. From the extensive photographs and digital images he’d used for planning, the mercenary knew the PAC-3 sat on the coastal plain near Anpu. There was an entire battalion spread out over the area but the target the Chinese wanted destroyed was the BTOK. Destroying the individual batteries was secondary. The BTOK was the brain. Kill the brain and you kill the Patriot system.

  And send an unequivocal message to Taiwan.

  Taiwan belongs to China and China cannot be stopped. Not by Taipei, not even by the latest and most technologically advanced missile system. China cannot be stopped by the United States and Taipei can’t trust the United States to protect it.

  And there it was: 21.7 miles away.

  The mercenary fastened his mask with one hand and smiled. The Chinese had initially balked at his price, until he’d pointed out that they expected to get Taiwan in return. A 30-million-dollar target. He’d taken the customary 50 percent up front with the balance due upon successful completion.

  The airliner and its lethal shadow were now passing 5,000 feet and his eyes flickered around the cockpit. He flipped the toggle switch upward to
arm his chaff dispensing system.

  It was time.

  Taking a deep breath, he pulled the throttles back to idle. As the door-sized speed brake extended, the FLANKER seemed to stop in space. Rolling the jet onto its back, the pilot pulled straight down at the water. With his left hand he punched the cracker-sized button on the left bulkhead. Three bundles of metal-coated chaff were expelled into the slipstream and rapidly expanded, or blossomed. This happened twice more as he clenched his stomach muscles against the G forces and brought the fighter all the way back to level flight at 1,000 feet.

  The entire maneuver lasted a dozen seconds. Above him thousands of chaff strips floated in the air, generating a metallic cloud that would hopefully decoy any watching radar. Flying entirely by goggles now, the pilot eased the jet still lower and leveled off 100 feet above the sea and raced toward the coast.

  Glancing at the HUD, he banked slightly right to line up the steering cues to the target. As he pushed the throttles up to full non-afterburning power, the FLANKER surged forward and began to shake slightly.

  His fingers danced over the wartlike control buttons on the stick and throttles, but his eyes never left the HUD. Flying only by feel and his peripheral vision, the mercenary felt his heartbeat quicken.

  16.1 miles at 520 knots . . . less than two minutes to go.

  The lieutenant saw it clearly this time.

  ZHUK-PH

  But this time it was colored red. The system had decided it was hostile and upgraded the track. He expanded around the mnemonic and right-clicked the mouse.

  CON 1

  it was still a low-power return. CON was the abbreviation for “confidence level,” and there were five. Each one met conditions involving electronic emissions and radar parametrics, etc. CON 0 was the worst and CON 5 was the best.

  CON 1 generally meant an extremely low power return. Maybe from the side lobes or a radar in a standby mode. Or it could be nothing more than confusion with all the electronic emissions leaking from the airliner. This was precisely why Captain Wang had ordered the PAC-3 out of AUTO mode to prevent the inadvertent firing of a missile.